


When condemning the whole body

by anonissue



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Hiccups, M/M, Stanley Cup Playoffs 2017, don't ask me it was a kink meme fill, lie back and think of the cup?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 19:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10928319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonissue/pseuds/anonissue
Summary: "I mean, can't he just jerk off regular-like?" Nisky asks, sounding as bewildered by the line of conversation as Braden feels. "Why's it gotta be a finger in the ass?""Because," Alex insists. "Brain nerve has pathways to ass, not to dick. Bob knows I'm right, right Bob?""I was fine not participating in this conversation, thanks," Bob calls, ostensibly busy with the computer in the corner.--There's more than one way to cure the hiccups, as Braden Holtby has the misfortune to find out.





	When condemning the whole body

**Author's Note:**

> This is, generally speaking, a ridiculous premise, and entirely unbeta'd. I took a second pass at it before posting it here, but like -- pretty much only claiming it to be accountable for more of my work. Don't come in here with high expectations, this is not some pornographic opus.
> 
> Original prompt and fill can be found [right over here](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=4812750#cmt4812750).
> 
> Content warnings are in the notes at the end -- there are some, but not many.

"Have you tried holding your breath?" Wilso suggests, a small, nervous frown playing across his face as he sits down in the stall across from where Braden is standing.  
  
Of fucking course Braden has. That was the very first thing he tried when this shit started up at 5:40 this morning after his run. How Tom could possibly imagine he's dealt with this for almost twelve hours and not tried holding his breath stupefies him. Braden opens his mouth, probably to say something less polite than "oh good suggestion Tom, I'll try that right now!" but instead his body hijacks his attempt to talk with yet another hiccup. And then another.  
  
"Fuck," Braden finally manages, hiding his face in his hands. "This is ridiculous." He hiccups again.  
  
Some of the guys are still outside kicking around a soccer ball, some are in the bike room -- it's still two and a half hours to puck drop, but there are _things_ Braden needs to start doing to keep to schedule. It's the middle of the playoffs and the last thing he needs in this already abysmal series against the Penguins is his own body rebelling against his pregame routines.  
  
He drops to the bench with another hiccup.  
  
"At what point is this considered a legitimate medical emergency?" Burkie is asking Grubs who's just arriving and taking off his headphones.  
  
Philipp looks incredibly confused. "At what point is what considered a legitimate medical emergency?"  
  
Braden opens his mouth to ask Andre why he's laughing at his pain, but -- hiccups happen instead. Philipp blinks, and looks down at him from where he's standing. Andre _actually laughs_ and clarifies: "That."  
  
"You have the hiccups?" Philipp asks, looking mildly pitying. Braden's pretty sure he's being rhetorical. "I had them before the Denmark game in '08. Lasted three hours, but hey, got the shut-out, so who knows -- maybe it's good luck, eh?"  
  
Braden doesn't believe in the concept of luck, as such, but it's not like he can really debate that right now with much success.  
  
Philipp continues after a second: "Have you tried a bucket of water?"  
  
Braden, in fact, has not.  
  
\-------  
  
Plunging his face into a bucket of ice water doesn't work.  
  
Having a bucket of it poured down his back (more ice than water to be honest, which manages to somehow be worse than the time he did it for the Ice-Bucket Challenge video) doesn't work, nor does farting deliberately, nor standing on the bench and yelling "I HAVE THE HICCUPS" as loudly as physically possible -- although Nate almost dies laughing while he does it, causing the kind of splotchy heat he knows is a blush to curl up under the skin of his face and neck.  
  
Braden is 100% sure the Snapchat notification he just received was of Nate filming him, too, which just makes him feel all the more miserable.  
  
Also, Braden's hiccup issue has now escalated into eating away at the time he's set aside for the visualization exercises he runs through while plow-stretching. It's cause for concern, although if he can fix this is the next twenty minutes, he already has a plan for how to adjust the rest of his pregame to make up for the lost time. If he can't, well -- Braden honestly probably shouldn't spend time thinking about that right this second.  
  
"I looked it up," Andre says with the sort of expectant tone Braden imagines means he's trying to be helpful. Braden climbs down off the bench, trying not to roll his eyes, and ignores Nate who's still giggling in the corner. "If your hiccups last more than 48 hours, or if the hiccups come so frequently they interfere with your ability to perform necessary daily functions -- go to the ER."  
  
"D'you think the ER doc will agree that playing hockey is a necessary daily function?" Justin asks, scrubbing a hand through his absolutely unruly hair before picking at his graying stubble.  
  
Andre hums consideringly. Braden gives up and rolls his eyes hard enough that there are spots in his vision.  
  
"The ER," he manages to get out. "Will probably just give me -- _hhic_ thorazine and then I won't be able to play because the drug kind of makes _hicc_ it hard to move. I already called our clinic doc."  
  
"Have you tried eating a Slim Jim and then chugging a Dr. Pepper?" Nate asks, more-or-less straight-faced while wiping at his eyes.  
  
"I don't trust you," Braden hisses, and hiccups. "Or your suggestions."  
  
Nate has the nerve to look a little hurt, when Nisky calls over: "Nah, for real, it's on a list of cures on the Internet -- my sister tried that one time after catching the hiccups before a debate competition, it totally worked. She said it was so disgusting, it completely reset her system."  
  
Braden wants to call bullshit, but he hiccups four times in rapid succession. Nisky waves his phone at him like it's somehow possible for Braden to read the text of whatever browser page he has open at the moment. The hell of it is that he knows Alzner is oddly addicted to shitty sub-par jerky, so there's a high probability he'll have Slim Jims in his bag. Nisky catches him staring at Alzner, who's also noticed Braden staring at him and looks a little like a deer caught in the headlights.  
  
Nisky takes advantage of Braden scrutiny and somehow ninjas himself behind Braden's eyeline in the meantime, using the opportunity to startle-slap Braden square between the shoulders a little harder than necessary without his pads on. Braden jerks forward and almost slides off the bench. He'd be more irritated, but he figures Matt was probably genuinely trying to hit the hiccups out of him with a surprise attack. It doesn't work. He shrugs, like _hey, I tried?_ and Braden laughs once, mostly hysterically, before he can stop himself.  
  
"The machine outside has Dr. Pepper, you want regular or diet?" Nisky asks, then, dropping the shrug and walking towards the hallway exit.  
  
Braden can't quite really believe he's hit the stage of trying the truly improbable and utterly ridiculous hiccups cures, but a quick glance at the clock shows that his twenty minute window of figure-your-shit-out has dwindled down to a paltry three.  
  
"Regular is fine," Braden says after another hiccup couplet, and tells himself desperate times.  
  
\-------  
  
The combination does taste more awful than anything Braden could've imagined, but it doesn't stop the hiccups.  
  
He also agrees to eating a mustard-covered marshmallow, chased with a delightful palette cleanser of pickle juice, but that abomination fails to do the job as well.  
  
Braden excuses himself abruptly from the room at that point, half because he's genuinely close to tears and has now sweat through his undershirt before even starting warmups, and half because he doesn't actually want to tell anyone he's going to the bathroom to make himself throw-up. Vomiting stimulates the same nerve that kind of over-reacts to cause the hiccuping, as he understands it, so it's not just -- it's not just vomiting to make Braden feel better, to calm his nerves. But he does scoot down to the bathroom by the smaller of the two training rooms as fast as his hiccuping ass and leg pads will let him go, because privacy is often a blessing.  
  
Braden throws up twice, the second time awful and wrenching full-body heaves that leave him feeling wrung out and quiet and -- and he's not hiccuping.  
  
Braden sits up suddenly, ignoring how badly the toilet smells, and holds his breath as he flushes it, hoping beyond hope as nothing comes. He stands, washing his face, feeling a little light, a little dizzy, but so incredibly relieved. Floating a bit will help settle him down a bit easier for the rest of pregame, honestly, so all things considered, Braden's almost annoyed he didn't try this earlier.  
  
He comes back to the room, which grows silent and then floods with cheers led by Nate who whoops loudly after he spends a minute studying Braden distinctly not-hiccuping after coming back in. He throws an arm around Braden, squeezing him, infiltrating Braden's space like he does, like Braden lets him all too often, and instead of shrugging him off, Braden finds himself grinning.  
  
"It was totally the Slim Jims, don't lie," Nate needles.  
  
"Oh, definitely," Braden agrees as sarcastically as possible, grabbing a pile of towels and his looped stretching strap. "I'm going to go start my stuff."  
  
"Go on, get," Nate nodds, slapping Braden's ass hard. "Gorgeous right out of the gate!"  
  
"Gorgeous right out of the gate," Braden calls back without turning, bumping shoulders with everyone he can managed in a rush of effervescent confidence and relief as he stalks out of the room to finally, _finally_ , get ready to be the goalie the team needs to have out on the ice tonight.  
  
\-------  
  
Braden's on the floor, knees by his ears, towel across his eyes, and in his head, he's picturing water slowly rising up to cover his body like a rising tide or water flowing into a tub. It'll cover his face and, like always, there'll be an impulse to hold his breath or believe than he's underwater and can't breathe. The second isn't true, and the first he has to push through -- he knows, and Braden can, some days it just comes easier than others.  
  
He's done this so often that his brain happily supplies the feeling of shunting coolness of water along his skin, of lapping wetness across the tops of his thighs, across the plane of his neck, and now, over his face. He forces his mind to focus on the distinct sensation of the last piece of breaching skin -- the kneecaps, the nose, the toes -- getting swallowed up by the rising water.  
  
Braden feels his breath catch in his throat, which -- happens, but he can breathe here, under _this_ water, he's just gotta push out a little and --  
  
Braden hiccups.  
  
He sits bolt upright, swinging his legs up and rocking himself to a sitting position on his knees a little too quickly, back twinging in mild protest. His heart is jackrabbting in his chest as he thinks hopelessly that maybe it was just a fluke, maybe he won't go right back to --  
  
Braden hiccups again, three times in a row.  
  
He yells wordlessly and very fucking loudly into the dim emptiness of the room.

  
\-------  
  
Braden's shouting was loud enough to bring people, so how he's lying on the floor of the smaller training suite with a circle of concerned teammates and training staff standing over him, discussing how to handle the situation.  
  
Braden maturely has refused to remove the towel from his face, while tuning out most of the discussion mostly to entertain fantasies of smothering himself to death with the scratchy fabric of the towel. He hiccups, and his hands twist almost involuntarily tighter at either end of the towel to pull it more tightly across his face.  
  
"I mean, we have Grubauer for a reason, if Holtby can't --"  
  
"I _hic_ can do this, come _on_ ," Braden finally cracks. "I just need an actual -- _hhuc_ actual solution for this that doesn't involve an anti-fu _hic_ king-psychotic drug and trip to GWU."  
  
"I mean, if it's the ER trip," and that's Greg now, which by virtue probably means that Ben and Bob are both here, if not also Dr. Liz, but Braden's still not at a place where he wants to take the towel off his face. "I'm pretty sure Liz can give you the thorazine, maybe a half-dose if you're worried about the drowsiness? and in the meantime me 'n Bob can run you through some vagal stim stuff, see if we can't mitigate it without drugs."  
  
"He's already done a lot of that," and that's Nicky, still quiet and fairly calm, but Jesus Christ, if he's here, who else is in this room watching him have a meltdown? Alex? Brooks? "Like, cold, and mild pressure to the eyes, diaphragm activation, bearing down. Nothing worked."  
  
"What got it to stop the first time?" Greg asks Nicky, Braden guesses.  
  
"I --you know, I'm not sure," Nicky says very carefully which makes Braden think he was perhaps not quite as stealthy about the whole vomiting thing as he thought.  
  
Braden pulls the towel off his face and sighs, swallowing two hiccups. "I made myself throw-up."  
  
"Well that'd stimulate the vagus nerve alright," Greg shrugs. "We'd need some kind of stimulus of comparable strength, although I wouldn't recommend vomiting again. Let me go talk to Liz real quick."  
  
"I'm going to sit on this as long as I can," comes the voice of Trotz from a phone on face time being held out by Nicklas. "But ultimately, Braden, I can't justify putting you out there if this doesn't stop. I'll make the decision a half hour before puck-drop. Just make sure someone tells Philipp about what's going on."  
  
"He already knows," Braden answers, sitting up. He scans the room -- about half the damn team is in here.  
  
"Good," Trotz says, although he looks anything but satisfied. "I'll be at the rink in forty-five minutes."  
  
Nicky pockets the phone after disconnecting the call, and shoots Alex a Look, before softening demeanor slightly to address Braden hiccuping sadly on the floor. "Nobody will think less of you if you can't start, but make smart decisions. I have kitchen duty. Let me know if anything changes."  
  
He leaves with most of the staff and a couple players who mumble something sympathetic but who are ultimately concerned with the promise of chicken parm and the necessity of the pregame carb-up. Left standing are Nate, Alex, Chorns, Willy, and Nisky, plus Bob the assistant trainer who looks largely put-upon by the ridiculousness of the situation.  
  
Alex makes some kind of noise while looking at his phone that Braden can't quite interpret which makes Braden suddenly, inexplicably nervous, before folding his huge frame onto itself, crouching down to be eye-level with Braden.  
  
"A finger in the ass," he says conspiratorially and grins like a maniac. "Will work, proven science."  
  
Of all the possible things Braden was expecting, this was not one of them. He opens his mouth, but can't muster up a response quickly enough to avoid letting a hiccup escape instead.  
  
"Whatever weird commie science you have over in Russia, maybe," Justin snorts. "Pretty sure that's otherwise solidly in the territory of proctologists and sex acts, not hiccup cures."  
  
"No seriously," Alex says, shrugging innocently. "Harvard give science award for discovery of finger-in-ass hiccup cure. Google it."  
  
"This is why we don't let Nicky leave the room when you give advice to the rookies," Chorns sighs. "In case you were wondering."  
  
"Nicky worse than me," Alex counters, sounding mildly defensive.  
  
Braden still has no idea what to say to that, but manages to stand up in the meantime because having this conversation while sitting on the floor surrounded by a circle of six-foot-plus hockey players is getting kind of intimidating.  
  
"I mean, can't he just jerk off regular-like?" Nisky asks, sounding as bewildered by the line of conversation as Braden feels. "Why's it gotta be a finger in the ass?"  
  
"Because," Alex insists. "Brain nerve has pathways to ass, not to dick. Bob knows I'm right, right Bob?"  
  
"I was fine not participating in this conversation, thanks," Bob calls, ostensibly busy with the computer in the corner.  
  
"Bob," Alex says, sounding profoundly disappointed.  
  
"What," Braden asks, still trying to wrap his head around this. "What would this even entail, like am I just _hicc_ sticking a finger up there?"  
  
"Like when you're getting a beej and a chick gets all frisky and shit, you know --"  
  
"Yeah," Braden manages dryly even though he can't stop the fact that his face is probably flushed and getting worse by the minute. "I _know_ , but --"  
  
"I think his point," Justin interrupts calmly. "Is is it the finger in the ass that fixes the hiccups, like just the breech, or y'know, coming from it?"  
  
"I think come, so muscles squeeze," Alex supplies.  
  
"I think I'd like to start this day over," Braden adds, and then hiccups. "Or get hit by a bus."  
  
"But it works?" Nate asks, chewing on his bottom lip. "Like, really -- it works? Because -- shit, Bob, you have lube, right? Whatever you use for the ultrasound machines --"  
  
"You're not putting ultrasound gel up anyone's ass," Bob answers still not turning around.  
  
Braden is convinced this is likely the worst day of his entire life. He's absolutely blushing now, he can see his skin flushed down past the rise of his collarbone and v-neck shirt. If he's going to be embarrassed by a laughable handicap, he doesn't understand why he also has to be humiliated in the process of admitting his defeat. Braden gets, probably, that his teammates are trying to help with this nonsense, but what the fuck even is this conversation? He stares resolutely at a scuff on the floor.  
  
"I mean -- OK, what's the wording in the article?" Nate's asking Alex, crowding him to peer over his shoulder at his phone.  
  
"Not talk about it in detail, just refers to study --" Alex clears his throat loudly. "Termination of intractable hiccups with digital rectal massage."  
  
"That sounds like actual finger-in-ass action, not just bend-over-and-cough--" Chorns says from where he's leaning against the wall by the door.  
  
"It sounds kind of complicated," Nate grousses. "What the fuck's the difference between a "digital rectal massage" and just sticking a finger up there--"  
  
"It not mention coming," Alex says, sounding concerned.  
  
"I think that's probably a given," Nate counters. "What, with it being a massage versus --"  
  
"OK," Bob says loudly, the scrape of his chair across the floor jarringly loud as he stands.  
  
Braden hiccups twice into the ensuing silence.  
  
"Everybody not named Braden needs get the hell out of the room. I want to talk to him," Bob stares down the deflating room. "In private, thanks."  
  
Nobody really argues with Bob, but the declaration results in a semi-awkward eruption of back-pats and you-get-through-thises with Braden as its epicenter. Nate lingers a bit, and squeezes the back of Braden's neck in a way that is kind of reflexively reassuring, but doesn't quell the dread and shame crashing against each other in the pit of Braden's stomach.  
  
Once Bob closes the door on the last of the stragglers, he turns to face Braden, pinching his nose.  
  
"First of all," Bob starts, as Braden takes a breath to speak. "No let me finish, please."  
  
"Fine," Braden acquiesces after hiccuping.  
  
"First of all, Alex isn't, actually, full of shit," Bob grimaces, like having this conversation is the absolute worst, which -- well, Braden can empathize. "Orgasming is probably one of the strongest vagal stimuli you can induce period, and well -- uh, anal tone. Is controlled by the vagus nerve. There was a dude who did get an award for an utterly ridiculous paper he submitted after treating a patient in his ER, but even if there weren't, the biology is sound."  
  
"I have to -- from that?" Braden waves generally in the direction of his ass.  
  
"I mean, coming alone should be a big enough jolt, but the two combined is probably the smarter way to go, if that's something you're comfortable with doing. Anyway," Bob says with enough force to effectively end the conversation, and turns to a bin with various supplies for a second, rooting around inside it.  
  
Braden hiccups, and waits.  
  
"Here," Bob finally says, shoving four smallish packets into Braden's hands. "Water-soluble lubricant. Don't say I never gave you anything."  
  
"Uh," Braden counters, intelligently.  
  
"Now please," Bob voices breaks a little, making him sound like he's genuinely pleading. "Get out of my office."  
  
\-------  
  
When Braden gets back to the locker room, he strips out of his clothes resolutely and heads into the mostly-empty showers followed by landslide of wolf-whistling.  
  
It's not surprising. It's not even -- like, OK, it's a little humiliating, but it's not _mean_ , and the longer Braden has to rationalize the entire thing, it's just another way his body needs him to take care of it, so whatever. He can do this.  
  
He keeps telling himself that in between hiccups that echo off the tile as he makes his way into the steam.  
  
There are a few people in here, but spaced out -- mostly the few of the guys that like to use the sluicing heat as a way of keeping their muscles loose after manual manip and before warm-ups. Braden takes a far half-stall for privacy and distance, especially since he does get that the whole "water-soluble" element of the stuff Bob gave him means it dissolves in water so he won't even have the spray to hide what he's doing.  
  
But he does start up the shower, at least to begin with, suddenly struck with an almost perfunctory need way to wash the extra sweat off that's accumulated, and then finds himself spending time actually soaping down because it's mindless, and if Braden can't have his pregame routine, Braden will do the best with what he's capable of having.  
  
The almost-searing heat of the water is nothing Braden isn't willing to endure to try and gather some of his familiar calm.  
  
He doesn't even really realize he's been spaced out, hiccuping, staring at the tile for an abnormally long amount of time until a familiar --  
  
"Hey."  
  
\-- interrupts him, and Braden doesn't even have to step out of water beating against his face to know it's Nate.  
  
Braden sags a bit, pushes the wet mop of his hair out of the way, before opening his eyes and looking over Nate's shoulder to his left.  
  
"Hey," Braden parrots.  
  
"Do you need a hand?" Nate asks, and at that Braden does actually look at him. Nate's nothing but lines of attentively benign interest and calm.  
  
"What?" Braden gets out, and his body feels like it's been non-stop flush since the entire bullshit after his visualization exercises earlier, so it's hard to only blame the way the water gets a little bit colder on just the steamy heat of the room.  
  
"Do you need a hand," Nate repeats, waggling his eyebrows, and then gesturing -- obscenely, but clearly -- with a circle of his fingers and the thrusting tips of his other hand. "With the butt stuff?"  
  
"No," Braden says reflexively, without thinking, sputtering through another string of hiccups. But continues, averting his eyes, "I mean, I don't think so? -- I've had it done by other people, like, during blow-jobs  _hicc_ it seems translatable."  
  
Braden trails off, shrugging, letting his eyes fall back to the tile.  
  
"Sure, it's similar," Nate agrees. "Angle's kind of fucking weird if you've never done it to yourself before, though, and I mean, you could spend the whole remaining 90 minutes trying to figure out how to finger yourself--"  
  
And get no warm-up at all, Braden thinks hysterically. He might as well just get the hell out of the showers now and tell Filipp he's starting. He hiccups, even as he can't stop himself from frowning with practically his whole body, and then starts -- as Nate's fingers cup the side of Braden's hip closer to him.  
  
"Or you could let me lend a hand," Nate says, shrugging. No big deal, his body language yells. Braden wants to laugh. "I mean shit, you helped me when I wanted to shave my head for that points streak, even if you did chicken the fuck out --"  
  
"I didn't want to fuck up your hair," Braden protests, grinning almost helplessly and falling back into a old, familiar argument. "I was terrified of fucking up your hair."  
  
"You weren't gonna fuck up my hair, Jesus," Nate grins. "But don't worry, I've forgiven you. I even pinky-swear not to yell for Chorns to come in on the assist if you agree let me help you and I suddenly get cold feet."  
  
Braden must look horrified, because at his reaction, Nate dissolves into these helpless, hitching giggles that are just -- so entirely _like_ him, Braden can't help but feel like maybe he really isn't alone in this. The thought startles him enough into realizing he's going to say yes to Nate's offer of help despite the fact that Braden knows he should probably say no.

Once Nate catches his breath, and Braden gathers up enough of his wits, he waits out a hiccup and winds up managing to ask: "So how would that work, like -- do you -- do I? do I," Braden fumbles. "Jerk off? Or--"  
  
"I mean, depends totally on how freaky you want to get, but considering the circumstances, why don't we just keep it simple," Nate grins, sliding his fingers back and forth across the cut of Braden's hip like doesn't know how distracting that is with the extra friction of the water between fingers and skin.  
  
"What's simple?" Braden asks, voice cracking a little. And Braden thinks it's a fair question because nothing about this entire situation seems simple.  
  
"You jerk off, I'll stand behind you and help with the complicated stuff," Nate explains. "I'll go slow, just say something if you need me to stop. Do you have--"  
  
Braden cuts him off by pointing at the soap dispenser where he deposited the lube sachets when he came in here, fingers flicking against the hard plastic of the dispenser to draw Nate's eye.  
  
"Oh cool," Nate nods. "That works, but --" he reaches past Braden with his free hand still petting Braden's skin with his other, briefly bracketing Braden against the tile pressed against Braden's back, as he turns of the stream of Braden's shower. "Need to probably turn this off."  
  
It's so quiet, Braden thinks, feeling unreasonably exposed in a way his nakedness hadn't previously made him feel. It's not, not really, Braden knows, not with four or five other showers running and the chatter of voices filtering in bursts from the room outside, but everything he has is dialed-in on his nerves, on the radiant heat of Nate's body close to his, on the constant, rhythmic drag of Nate's fingers on his hip. Braden's breathing seems like the loudest thing here.  
  
"I don't want this to make shit weird," Braden blurts.  
  
"Buddy," Nate says, sounding fondly exasperated. He gets a hand on Braden's jaw and actually turns Braden's head to ensure eye contact. "I want you to play. That's all this has to be. It only gets weird if we let it, OK? I don't want to let it."  
  
"OK," Braden echos dumbly, even as Nate's had strays from its established path and dips, dangerously, down the valley of Braden's ass. "OK." Braden holds his breath, hates how sharp his chest feels when he hiccups despite it. It's a good distraction.  
  
It's a better one to get a hand on his hardening dick, squeezing at it a few times, before turning around and leaning against the tile, his head on his forearm. He spits into his free hand before wrapping it back around himself. The faster this gets done, Braden thinks, the more time he has to get ready.  
  
"There you go," Nate sighs along the outside of Braden's ear, dropping more of his weight against Braden's back to reach around him to grab the lube.  
  
The sudden weight of him raises gooseflesh along Braden's arms. Nate's breath on his ear adds startling -- embarrassing -- speed to the way he's chubbing up in his own hand.  
  
"Shit," Braden breathes, moving his hand erratically, a little too keyed up still to find a solid rhythm. He takes care to push his foreskin back, to rubbing the pad of his thumb across his slit, letting his hips jerk a little with the spark that sends up his spine.  
  
It's -- he's jerked off in the shower with Brandi before, but this is -- this isn't like that, this isn't lazy mornings and sleepy affection, this is raw; so raw, somehow, even as Braden hiccups stupidly through it. Nate's hand on his hip travels, trailing across the hair on his stomach, scratching lightly between the spaces of his ribs, and Braden tries to swallow whatever sound tries to escape at the sensation Nate's fingers elicit.   
  
"Tell me if you want me to stop," Nate mumbles against his ear, keeping himself pressed along the backs of Braden's thighs, belly to the divot of his lower back, the line of Nate's own dick slowly becoming unignorable against the side of Braden's ass.  
  
"OK," Braden breathes, nonsensically, rubbing his face against his arm and speeding up his other hand.  
  
He feels desperate even without Nate's help because this _has_ to work, he _has_ to beat the fucking Penguins. Braden always feels like he has so much, too much, to prove and mostly to himself, but -- but also there's a progression here, separate from the game, a pattern emerging in all the touching he never stopped Nate from seeking, and the way Braden himself has been guilty of letting it ground him, letting it sink into his skin. It feels like it's come together with every other need inside of Braden now to build houses on the land of his body -- Nate pinching at a nipple almost too lightly, and then pressing into a bruise on his side almost too hard, it all feels like acutely unfair, like too much to contain --  
  
"Please," Braden gets out, even as he has to stop to squeeze at the base of his dick. "You need to, I gotta -- _hicc_ you have to do this before I come."  
  
"Easy," Nate gentles. "Easy, I got you, no problem, I'm just gonna --"  
  
And before Braden can even readjust his hand, Nate slides a finger up to his second knuckle, just like that. Braden freezes, and clenches, straining even as another set of hiccups squeezes past his throat. Nate -- nuzzles into the side of Braden's neck, shushing him. It occurs to Braden he's been making noise, it hadn't even really registered. Braden bites the meat of his arm. Nate's finger is fine, this is barely anything, just a little uncomfortable. Braden needs him to keep going.  
  
"Easy, Bray," Nate says again, barely more than a damp gust of air against the side of his throat. "Keep touching yourself."  
  
Braden does, his fingers encircling the head, his hips thrusting gently so he can work into his fist, letting precome and his foreskin do their jobs. It's. It's pretty good, although Nate's fingers are more distracting than anything else. It's why he'd never really asked anyone do to do this more often, or gone after it himself. He can come despite it, he knows he will now -- Braden can feel the edge of his orgasm surfacing and knows how to get himself there, even has his own fingers curl reflexively tighter -- but he doesn't know, is -- is there supposed to be something else, is his prostate just not really that sensitive, is he doing this --  
  
Nate bites his shoulder, and hard. "Stop thinking," he says. "And relax, push in to it, I'll take care of you."  
  
Braden shakes his head, hair sticking to his forehead, and tries to do what -- what Nate said with the pushing. Nate's thrusting a little with the finger now, curling gently in different directions every time he slides in all the way up to the meat of his palm, and -- and --  
  
"Oh fuck," Braden manages, and that's not quiet at all. "Oh my god, oh fuck."  
  
"Yeah?" Nate laughs, sounding deeply pleased with himself. "OK, good."  
  
And it's -- Braden can't handle any of this at all, the constant pressure from the way Nate's rubbing is incredible and he's not sure if he's needs to piss or come or if this is something else that's happening that's far more concrete and incorrectable but Braden's moving into his own hand half just to get away from Nate's fingers -- two of them, when did he manage to fucking get two of them in there -- and pushing back onto Nate's fingers with equal desperation right after, furiously chasing the overwhelming loss of sensation.  
  
"Shit," Braden tries to say, but he's pretty sure nothing close to an actual word comes out. " _Oh_ shit--"  
  
His knees buckle slightly, but Nate just wraps his free arm around Braden's hips to hold him in place, his other hand inside him never faltering. Braden comes biting his tongue, his forehead sliding down off his arm, causing his chin to crash against tile. Braden can taste the sudden bright iron in his mouth, knows he's bleeding. He also really doesn't give a shit right now.

Nate's hand pets him neck to hip a few times as he gently eases his fingers back out. Braden doesn't particularly enjoy that, but it's followed rapidly by both of Nate's arms wrapping around him and hauling him back towards the heat of Nate's still shower-warm body.  
  
"I'm going to turn the water back on, OK?" Nate asks, sounding rougher than he should.  
  
Braden wants to turn around to look at him, but he feels like a boiled noodle, and Nate's holding on to him in a way that doesn't make getting his arms free particularly easy. The water cascades back down over them, and Braden takes his time washing away the sticky traces of semen, the lube from between his ass. Nate's still there, touching him, but there's an intangible distance now.  
  
That more than anything makes him turn around once Braden's sure his legs will hold him. Nate looks -- Nate's flushed, his face caught between satisfaction and annoyance, and he's also painfully hard.  
  
Braden blinks, and then carefully maintains eye-contact with Nate while pointing. "You need a hand with that?"  
  
"Nah," Nate smiles, but it's not one-hundred percent genuine. "I'll be good. Hiccups seem like they're gone though, huh?"  
  
Braden -- Braden smiles. "Yeah, so they do. You fixed me, uh -- thanks."  
  
"Please," Nate scoffs. "When you shut Pittsburg's shit down in an hour, that'll be thanks enough. You can still warm-up if you hurry."  
  
Braden feels torn in the face of Nate's obvious physical dissatisfaction, but Nate reaches out, touches Braden's jaw, and winks. "Go on," Nate says. "I'll be right behind you."  
  
Braden breathes, nods. And Braden goes.

**Author's Note:**

> While the characters engaged in a sex-act might be reluctant to engage in said sex-act for various reasons, both parties are entirely consenting. Braden makes mention of intentional purging via emesis in this for a stated reason that isn't strictly food/eating-related and can be read as a simple performance/nerves related behavior but is most certainly not entirely healthy. Mild public humiliation, although almost all of it is more or less done with the genuine intention of helping Braden solve his problem.
> 
> As always, please let me know here or drop me a line at fiveholeforecheck at gmail if there's something you'd like me to warn for that I've forgotten.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [There’s a World Inside You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13233741) by [angelheadedhipster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster), [hi_irashay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_irashay/pseuds/hi_irashay)




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